As ever, Christopher
by Auntieoaty
Summary: Foyle has left London and the Home Office; but, something has drawn him back. Multi-chapter - I'll post one chapter a day until complete, should take the week.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: own nothing / claim nothing / profit nothing All errors are mine; no Beta

Spoilers: As always potentially any episode

Warning: Character death (Not Foyle or Sam). My apologies to his creator and the actors who portrayed him; no offense or disrespect ever intended.

 **Chapter 1**

Foyle had secured a room, unpacked and been downstairs by noon for a bite to eat. Finding he had little appetite, he opted for a small plain cake and a spot of tea. On returning to his room, he sat down to the desk and drew some of the hotel stationary in front of him.

My Dearest Sam,

You have, for many years, been a very important person in my life.

I had thought, at one time, I should explain that more fully to you. That time was in the moments following the announcement of the War's end; however, before I could find the words, Andrew was there and the two of you were off. With the passage of time it seemed to have simply become a moment missed.

You never knew; but, I did consider inviting you to America with me. Couldn't justify it, much as I may have wanted to.

Seems so many things were happening all at once; including, most importantly, your meeting Adam. Ultimately, I thought it for the best, the two of you being the same age and having a similar outlook for your respective futures.

When we said our goodbye, before I left for America, you were so excited about having children, and I thought I had made the right decision; leaving things as they were. Thought occurred in passing, as I boarded the ship, I wasn't at all sure I would want to go through child rearing again; a challenge better off left to the young. That thought helped to convince me I had made the right decision.

Then when I returned, saw you not looking happy or well; I knew there was definitely something amiss with you and began to think I had made the wrong decision, after all. Leaving things as they were appeared to have been a mistake.

Things went along, as you well know, and I began to feel we would do best continuing to work together and remain friends.

However, when time came you had this beautiful baby; I was and am honored to be her godfather. We weren't working together anymore but I was content to have a continued role in your life. Being included as some part of your growing family was enough.

I knew there were strains for you and Adam, but I thought, you'd work through them, as people do. But then, they weren't worked out, were they? I didn't know what had happened; wasn't my business. But, I knew you were hurting; that was quite obvious to me and I didn't like it one bit. Quite honestly, my business or not, I couldn't not get involved.

I went to see Adam, you know. Most likely you didn't know until now. Actually, I went twice. First time, I talked myself out of sticking my nose in your business and left before he was available to see me. Next time, I had to see him. You had been in such a state when we had met for tea earlier that day. I knew you weren't telling me everything, although I was fairly certain you had tried. There are somethings that can, at times, be too difficult to put voice to and I understood that. But, I didn't understand why you were in the state you were in and why things between you and Adam never seemed to get any better.

He didn't immediately kick me out of his office, but he did make it very clear that he wished to have nothing more to do with me. Told me my being your daughter's godfather and naming her after me were your ideas; he had had no say in the matter. He went on to explain, that it seem to him I was 'always around' and had 'insinuated myself' into your lives more than he felt was appropriate. This was followed by some very unkind things about you and a specific comment regarding Christina that implied my interactions with you, while working here in London, were far beyond a professional relationship.

I had had enough and attempted to set him straight. For all the good that did. I told him I understood he had great pressures related to his job and other responsibilities but that did not give him the right to take it out you or Christina; especially with such ridiculous and demeaning insinuations against a devoted wife and innocent daughter. I then said that as for myself, I could further understand his feelings that I made myself too available and I would endeavor to minimize my presence in his life. At which point he was quick to inform me it was not only his life in which I was too prominent but his wife and his daughter's lives as well.

So, though I am now very sorry to have done so, I purposely put some distance between you and me; both physically and emotionally these past few months. Went back to Hastings; didn't call on you when visiting London, nor did I ever attempt to phone you and I did my best to keep any correspondence on my part to a minimum. That however, did not seem to make a bit of difference as Adam phoned me last week demanding to know why I had continued to contact you. I regret to say, I did not do well holding my temper when I reminded him I had said I would 'minimize my contact with you', not eliminate it. Which I now fear, may have caused you additional problems in your marriage. For that, if it is true, I am very sorry. I never want to see you hurt and am most especially aggrieved to ever be the cause.

I will be London for the remainder of the week and would very much like to see you. - If you will.

As ever, Christopher

Foyle folded the letter and tucked it into a matching hotel envelope. He took care to completely seal the envelope and then simply addressed the missive 'Sam'. With a call to a trusted friend he secured the letter's covert and direct delivery to Sam within the hour.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer, Spoilers, and Warning

It was just less than quarter over an hour from the time he sent the letter off that there was a knock at his room door. A porter stood on the other side when he opened the door and quickly informed him he had a call and could take it at the front desk. Foyle secured his room and made his way to the front desk, keeping his actions purposeful and deliberate. He did not wish to convey any excitement or impatience in reaching the phone; no need to attract the attentions of others.

Taking the proffered hand set, Foyle kept his voice neutral, even though he knew exactly who was on the other end of the line, he simply said, "Hullo?"

"Christopher?" Sam's voice held equal amounts of desperation, relief, and hope.

His chest clinched involuntary, one brief tight pulsation, just enough to stress his voice slightly, "Yes. Sam, how are you?"

"Better, now."

She didn't have to finish the sentence; he knew she meant now that they were talking. "Alright if we meet?"

"I would like that. I haven't a car though. Would you mind coming to the house?"

"Not at all. When?"

"Soon as you can?"

"Of course."

Foyle returned to his room, retrieved his hat and coat, and was back to his car in mere minutes. He mused over the sound of Sam's voice as he made his way through the streets of London. The congestion of the city was something he would never miss. That thought had broken his analysis of the hints and clues the phone call had presented. Varied disjointed thoughts began to vie for his attention. Why he couldn't maintain his focus on the phone call and Sam's voice confused and annoyed him. Driving! He never liked having to drive when he was trying to think; far too many distractions. Finally, deciding he would see Sam soon and know far more by looking at her than dissecting their brief conversation, he redoubled his efforts to focus exclusively on his driving.

Sam opened the door before he could raise his hand to knock. As he took in the sight of her, he had to fight the urge to pull her into an embrace. She looked as though she were about to crumble both physically and emotionally. One part of his mind reasoned that a reassuring supportive hug would have been quite beneficial to her. However, another part argued that a hug might just break the dam and he didn't think he could endure a crying Sam; not at that moment. The vulnerability he saw in her was so foreign and out of place in the Sam he had known and worked with for so many years. Foyle determined the best way to help her maintain control of her emotions was to not draw attention to them. The thought 'act naturally' passed his mind and he almost got mentally derailed thinking over the _how_ of acting natural. His mouth tensed at the corners under the pressure of his attempt at a smile. Sam's attempt was no better as she stepped back to allow him to enter.

They managed to make their way through a little awkward small talk. Conversation progressed through, very brief, cursory discussions on Hastings since he returned, London since he'd left, Andrew's job in London and Foyle's potential employment options. Finally, fearing their time may be running out, Foyle said, "I think we've avoided the reason for my visit long enough."

Sam's body relaxed the slightest bit, but he noticed the change, just before she nodded in agreement.

Taking that as all the permission he needed, he launched in, "After Adam phoned me a couple of days ago, I made a few discrete inquiries among a few of my contacts here in London. When I heard about the intense and persistent arguing between the two of you." He broke off the statement when he saw the sorrow building in her eyes. "Sorry Sam, but there were multiple witnesses and many instances recounted to me. Each one worse than the last."

She gave him a tight nod and swiped at an errant tear, "No. It's alright. It's all true. Go on."

"They also told me about his public displays of intoxication. And, that he was seen, on more than one occasion, pushing you about."

He leveled a glance at her and she nodded her confirmation.

He could not bring himself to recount anymore, she knew it all already and was likely able to tell by looking at him; he knew it all too. Taking a deep steadying breath he decided to change tack and jump to the end and what he had wanted to say from the moment he heard her voice on the phone, "Well, I decided enough was enough. So, here I am."

She stared at him as though she was barely able to focus; embarrassment evident and to him the apparent cause of her immobility.

Foyle finished his statement, with all the sincerity and conviction he dared, "I won't walk away from you again, Sam."

That seemed to reach her as she blinked a few times, wiped her hands against both eyes and nodded that she had heard him.

Against his attempt to stay neutral, he felt his chest tighten at the thought of what he must say next, "You have every right, of course, to send me away. Tell me it's none of my business." He read her expression and knew that wasn't likely but felt the need to add, "I wouldn't like that, but I would respect your choice."

"No, I wouldn't like that either, Christopher. I don't want you to go away."

That point settled, the tension in his chest relaxed and he ventured, "Good. How can I help?"

"Oh, I don't know." She tried to hide her distress but he _knew_ it more than heard it.

"Fair enough. Where is Adam?"

"I don't know that either. He should be at his office. But, I suppose, he could be anywhere."

"Very well. Do you want to stay here? Or would you rather I get you and Christina a room?"

"I'm sorry Christopher, I just don't know what's best or what I should do."

"Understandable. How about, just decide what to do for the moment. No big decisions, just how we'll spend the morning? Shall we go out for some tea? Have a walk in the park? Stroll about a museum?"

"Yes."

"Which?"

"Any of them, just to..." She glanced around the room

"...'just to'? Get out of here, for a while?" Foyle concluded

"Yes. Thank you."

"Not at all."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer, Spoilers, and Warning

Foyle had suggested she collect some things for herself and Christina in the event she opted not to return home right away. Two small bags accompanied Christina's pram and day bag in the backseat of his car.

With a stop by his hotel so he could deposit the extra items in his room, for while they were out, the three were soon off for a stroll in a nearby park. They walked for a long quiet period. Christina's babbles the only sounds any of them uttered for close to half an hour. Foyle had felt the high tension levels slowly recede to more moderate levels. He knew, at present, there was no chance Sam's tension would totally subside, but any reduction was welcomed. To encourage the continued reduction of her stress he revisited a few of their earlier topics of conversation; specifically Andrew's job and life in London and his own job options in Hastings. They chatted amiably, as they had in the past, with one significant difference; Foyle did the majority of the talking.

During a lull in the conversation, Foyle watched the smaller version of Sam take in the sights around her. The child's hair, eyes, coloring and smattering of freckles across her face combined in a near perfect likeness of Sam. Her wonderment of discovery and persistent expression of fascination and curiosity completed the replication of her mother. He had to admit he had missed Christina as much as he had missed Sam. When he had first held her, nearly a year earlier, it had seemed unfamiliar and as uncomfortable as though he had never before held a baby. Which was not the case of course, it had been years since Andrew had been so small, but Foyle had put in many hours of holding and interacting with his infant son. Rosalind had committed a few times, that he was more physically active and emotionally attached to their son than any father she had ever known. He never had been able to tell her it was because he had worried if anything were to happen to him his son wouldn't know how much he had loved him. It had never once crossed his mind in those early years that it could be Rosalind that something could happen to.

After a little practice, mostly on learning to relax around her, Foyle became quite comfortable holding and interacting with Christina. It had become a regular practice, provided he didn't have a work obligation to interfere, for him to visit Sam around lunchtime. Early on, when Christina was only a couple of months old, he had noticed her tell when she was getting tired. She would raise her right hand and roll it against the side of her head between her temple and ear. As she got older she would flip her fingers through the hair that grew in that spot. He could always tell when the little girl was sleepy, but that did not always mean she was willing to go to sleep.

One day, when Christina was about four or five months old, Sam had said the baby had been especially fussy before he arrived. He found nothing had changed upon his arrival either. On a blanket in the middle of the front room floor, lay a decidedly unhappy baby girl with her right hand worrying the side of her head. As soon as he secured Christina in a firm hold against his chest he began whispering softly to her. The next thing Foyle realized, he had begun petting his fingers, in long steady strokes, along her forehead just above her eyebrows, down her temple, behind her ear and down her neck. He continued the tender caresses and soft murmuring while she calmed and eventually fell asleep. Sam declared him to have the magic touch for putting her daughter to sleep. Most afternoons, while Sam fixed their lunch Foyle would coax Christina into her afternoon nap. As the months went on, he was often afforded a few minutes play time before she settled for her nap. He and Sam would, as much as he was permitted, discuss his current case or associated puzzlement while they ate. In addition to their lunches together, he was an invited dinner guest of the little family's at least once a week. Most of those evenings provided him the opportunity of joining Christina's bedtime rituals, including his favorite; story reading, while she fell asleep in his arms.

They returned to the hotel after their walk in the park and settled into the hotel parlor, off the lobby, in silent mutual agreement. Foyle lifted Christina from her pram and settled her on his lap, tucking her against his chest. He had seen her hand at the side of her head as they had entered the hotel and figured a nap for her would help them all. As he set to work on lulling her to sleep he felt her left arm push up between them, her hand snake up his neck past his left ear and then her tiny fingers as they twitched against the ends of his hair. While he focused his attentions on soothing her into her rest, she idly flipped her little fingers in her hair on the right and his on the left. It wasn't long before he began to wonder which of them would fall asleep first. Ultimately, he managed to outlast her, but if it hadn't been for the pressing need to discuss several more important items with Sam, he would have happily succumbed to the hypnotic draw to sleep by the babe in arms.

In hushed tones the two adults managed to complete the necessary discussions surrounding what and how Sam needed to proceed in dealing with Adam and her marriage. Eventually, it was decided that Foyle would take Sam and Christina to their uncle Aubrey's. It would be a safe haven for whatever period of time was required to work through the rest of the decisions Sam had made that afternoon.

When they arrived, Foyle exited the car and came around to lift a sleeping Christina from her mother's arms, so Sam could climb out of the car unencumbered. The child stirred with being disturbed and began to fuss in protest. Foyle lazily stroked her back and uttered soothing words gently against her soft hair. As Sam exited the car he made eye contact, dissuading her from rounding to the boot for their bags, with a brief shift of his eyes. She moved passed the car and knocked swiftly on the vicarage door before trying the handle. The door swung open with a soft bump as it stopped against the wall. Uncle Aubrey smiled a silent welcome in deference to the sleeping child. When the door closed softly behind them Foyle turned to Sam's uncle and offered his right hand as he deftly eased Christina a little higher up onto his arm. Assured that her daughter was again sound asleep, Sam extracted a promise from her uncle tell no one of their presence in his home; not her parents and especially not Adam. Fear her parent's would disclose her location, out of some misguided belief that a husband had the unquestionable right to know where his wife was, prompted Foyle to insist on their way there that Sam extract the additional promise from her uncle. He knew it was a difficult thing for the vicar to agree to, so as soon as Sam had gone upstairs to put her sleeping daughter to bed, he urgently appealed to his friend as he led the way back to the car. "Aubrey, you must understand. I'm afraid ..." he stopped and amended truthfully, "I am certain, Adam has raised a hand to Sam already. And, I'm afraid he will likely do worse." He left the statement as it was. Editorializing was not going to further his cause. Besides, he could read the conviction in the elder man's eyes. He too would do anything within his ability to keep Sam and her daughter safe. Foyle stepped the remaining distance to the boot and retrieved Sam's bag, the pram, and Christina's bag of essentials. Expanding the pram and tucking the three bags into it, he rolled the items over to where the vicar stood.

Aubrey put his hand out, and as Christopher grasped it, he gently shook the younger man's hand as a reinforcement of his words, "I will tell no one they are here. And I will endeavor to keep them confined to the grounds."

Foyle held the older man's gaze, "Thank you! I knew Sam and I could count on your understanding and support."

"Always, my dear Christopher, always."

Foyle stole a quick glimpse at bedroom window overhead. Deciding in an instant he wouldn't be able to leave if Sam was present, he hastened to conclude, "I'm not sure how soon I'll return. Tell Sam I won't come back unless I am certain it will be safe for her. I'll phone soon." He moved quickly to his car and forced himself not to look into any of the mirrors until he was sure he couldn't possibly catch sight of Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer, Spoilers, and Warning

Foyle had not formulated a solid plan beyond ensuring Sam and Christina's safety. It had been an incredibly long and, though he would only admit it to himself, emotionally exhausting day. He was back in London and returning to his hotel when he noticed a man, who greatly resembled Adam; enter a pub around the corner from his hotel. Foyle stopped and followed the man's path into the nearby establishment. After entering, he scanned the dimly lit room and confirmed it was in fact Wainwright he had seen enter. Not wishing to draw undo attention to himself by leaving right after entering; Foyle took the few remaining steps to the bar and ordered a beer. His order delivered, he took one small sip. Before he could place the mug back on the bar Adam launched his first verbal attack. Foyle had not uttered a word to Adam or made eye contact with the younger man. Steadfast to his position at the bar he did not approach the younger man, nor did he respond when Wainwright attempted to verbally engage him. Foyle shifted his stance so as to turn his back fully to Adam. He held a posture that indicated the verbal barbs being tossed about had no significance for him. However, he listened keenly for any indication the younger man was moving closer. Additionally, he kept watch from the corner of his eye, in the mirror behind the bar; looking for movement in the open space directly behind him.

After several minutes of non-stop verbal assaults, Adam closed most of the distance between them. When Foyle refused to turn or acknowledge him, Adam lunged forward and clipped him with an elbow just below his shoulder blade, "My god, man! You had your chance! She married me! Leave my wife alone!" Wainwright spat vehemently; alcohol greatly distorting his pronouncements.

Having seen the approaching attack, in the mirror, Foyle had twisted his upper body away, just as Adam made contact, so the resulting impact was little more than a glancing blow.

Foyle had learned long ago arguing with alcohol did as much good as standing on the shore commanding the tide not to ebb or flow. He turned on one heel to leave, appearing to completely ignore the younger man's strike. Adam hurled himself at Foyle's retreating figure, but misjudged the distance and only managed to brush his hands along the older man's trousers as he crashed to the floor at the threshold of the door. Incensed, Adam lunged again in the split second Foyle hesitated to look over his shoulder at the momentarily prostrate form behind him. Wrapping his arms firmly about the knees within reach when he pitched upward, Adam dropped them both to the ground. Foyle scrambled to remove himself from the younger man's reach when Adam attempted to adjust his hold. In his harried motion to free himself Foyle inadvertently knocked Adam in the chin with the side of one of his knees. Wainwright began to yell protests of being, 'kicked in the face' as he made yet another attempt to gain purchase of Foyle's person. A couple of patrons of the pub stepped in as Adam began to swing wildly at Foyle. The younger man's frantic kinetic explosion of activity; flailing all four limbs in the direction of Foyle, caused the two patrons several false starts in their attempts to subdue the younger man. His turbulent uncontrolled movements still managed to connect a few blows to Foyle; who was still scrambling, in a half prone position, trying to extract himself from his attacker's grasp. The final blow attempted by Adam, came with the added force of impact from both the patrons who were trying to thwart such advances. The two Good Samaritans jumped at Adam just as he swung at Foyle. The younger man's punch missed the mark completely. Foyle would likely have come away unscathed, were it not for the driving force of the shoulder of one of the men and an elbow of the other. The pair fell atop Adam crushing the three of them, at top speed and combined weight, into Foyle; pinning him to the ground. In the chaos, of tangled flailing limbs, Foyle received the shoulder, full force into his nose and the elbow squarely in his chest; knocking the air out of him. Additionally, his two would be rescuers had managed, while disentangling themselves, to completely subdue him, effectively freeing Adam to run away. 'Run away', was a generous way to phrase the staggering, pitching gait the heavily inebriated man effected in his effort to flee. Foyle was not certain exactly what had transpired; between the blow to his chest that so thoroughly winded him, the vague noises of indistinguishable shouting, a constable's whistle blowing and the distant sound of a siren he had become rather disoriented. His next truly conscious actions were grasping at two proffered hands and bracing his feet in order to stand upright. A third man was shoving a handkerchief toward his face. While attempting to draw ever deeper breaths, he managed to ask why the handkerchief, only to have the answer before anyone else spoke. His words had caused bursts of tiny blood drops to erupt and spray outward from his face as the unmistakably pungent iron infused stickiness seeped into his mouth. Foyle accepted the handkerchief, pressed it firmly to his nose, pinched tightly, and tilted his head back as far as he dared. The clamor of voices were a mix of people expressing sympathy and encouraging him to seek some form of retribution; legal or otherwise, against such a 'shifty' and 'unwarranted' attack. It suddenly occurred to him that the sounds he was hearing, as evidenced by the distorted words, were greatly altered by the pressure that was building with the pulsing throb in his ears. Just as this realization came into full bloom, Foyle found his visual focus start to blur and his general sense of balance begin fail him. There was an increased warmth and pressure about his midsection and on other random places about his torso, then nothing. In the ensuing, albeit brief, blackness he heard a multitude of solicitous voices inquiring as to his safety, wellbeing, and state of consciousness. He opened his eyes to find himself seated on the ground in a less then dignified posture in front of the pub, head tilted over the open space between his knees; blood dripping in large random drops onto the walkway between his splayed legs. He moved his hand and found he still clutched the handkerchief from before. With a deliberate and controlled movement, he returned the nearly saturated cloth to his nose and resumed pinching in order to quell the flow of blood. It wasn't the first time it had been broken and it apparently was not going to readily stop bleeding any time soon. Holding pressure on his nose, while increasingly painful, was mandatory. Foyle closed his eyes against the pain as his mind began firing one random thought after another. He first pondered the warm pressure he had felt before he blacked out and deduced the people around him had reached and braced his descent to the ground below. That mystery satisfied, he idly wondered what time it was. It wasn't that he was concerned with the actual time in as much as he wondered how much longer he would need to continue to pinch his nose. The pain was horrible and the fingers gripping his nose were growing sore too. The noises that where once fused into a cacophony of mostly indiscernible sounds had become fewer and generally more focused and direct. Someone had taken charge of the situation, giving directions, asking questions, and generally bringing order to the chaos. A few moments later, Foyle heard a man repeatedly asking, 'Sir?' It wasn't until someone touched his arm that he realized the disembodied voice was addressing him.

Questions asked and answered; name, residence, occupation, did he know his attacker, had he known the man prior to that evening, what cause was he aware of for such behavior, was that the only time the man had attacked him, had he been following the man, had he done anything to provoke the attack?

Before long the constable reached, "What was the meaning of the man's statement, 'Leave my wife alone!'?"

At that point, Foyle had had enough, he had the distinct feeling he was being treated like a suspect and he didn't feel up to playing nice anymore. He wanted to get his nose packed, get cleaned up, and try to get some sleep. It had been a long, emotionally exhausting day that had just culminated in having his nose broken; again! He was done, more than ready for the day to be over.

Foyle glared at the young constable and nearly hissed, "Ask him what he meant. He said it!"

The look he leveled on the youthful face before him was meant to warn the young man off; cause him to ease away and give Foyle some space. When the young man continued to return his gaze, Foyle could read the wavering uncertainty and struggle within the young constable to maintain his composure.

With a deep breath and a discernible shift in his posture the constable stated dispassionately, "Yes, he did say it, sir. But, I can't ask him what he meant, because he's dead."

Foyle's turn to ease away; his body rolled further in on itself for a moment, as the words resonated through his mind. The impact of the constable's statement began to register, Foyle took a few deep breaths, as deep as his bruised lungs and battered nose would allow and sat up as straight as he could manage in his present position. He looked back to the constable, made unwavering eye contact, and offered a sincere apology, "That was uncalled for. I had no right to impede you in your duty. I'm sorry."

Caught completely unaware, the younger man merely nodded his acceptance.

Foyle, while truly contrite, saw the opportunity to gain information instead of imparting it, and refused to let the opportunity pass. "Constable, I said before that I recently resigned from Home Office. But, before that I was DCS Foyle of the Hastings Constabulary."

He watched his rank and identification register on the constable's face.

With utter ease, Foyle's voice assumed a tone he had employed hundreds of times over the years to illicit immediate and complete answers to his questions, "How is it Mr. Wainwright is dead?"

"He apparently bolted from the scuffle here and ran straight into the path of a taxi that was just rounding the corner, sir."

Foyle couldn't help but stare at the young man before him. He simply could not fully comprehend what he was hearing.

The constable misinterpreted the stare as a request for further information. With a hint of trepidation he explained, "The taxi was not going in excess of speed, sir. What happened was ... Well, it wasn't so much that the car hit him, sir. It's that it ran over him."

Foyle was well and truly stunned, but the deeply ingrained detective in him rose to the forefront of his thinking and kept his features schooled; revealing nothing, "Ran him over? How? If it wasn't 'going in excess'."

"Well, the car hit him and knocked him down, but somehow, either the way he fell or the driver swerving after the impact, caused the car to roll over his body. Twice."

Foyle was nearly incredulous, "Twice?!"

The constable looked as though he were the one guilty of running someone over. "Yes, sir! Uhm, you see, sir both the front and then the rear tires on the passenger side rolled over, uhm, Mr. Wainwright before the driver stopped completely."

"I see." It occurred to Foyle that he had so completely taken control of the conversation with the constable that the young man was now looking intently at him awaiting his next statement. He made a quick check of his nose and opted to change tack, "Uh, Constable ?"

"Rothswelt, sir."

"Right. Constable Rothswelt, I am going to need to see the MO or go to hospital."

"Sir?"

With a small shrug of apology he explained, "It appears my nose may have been broken tonight. The bleeding doesn't want to stop on its own."

"Oh! Of course! Yes, sir, right away." He quickly matched his actions to his words and started pulling Foyle to his feet.

Rothswelt called out a few orders to another couple of constables who were a bit further down the block. Within a matter of minutes he had Foyle loaded into the waiting ambulance, assuring him he needn't worry as another ambulance had been summoned to take the body away once it was released. Foyle requested Rothswelt contact his boss and ask that the senior officer meet him at hospital. Once more he was given the younger man's assurance that he would attend to the request immediately.

Within the span of two hours, Foyle had seen a doctor and had his nose packed, met with DCS Benchley and explained the situation with Adam; including his being an MP, his erratic behavior, heavy drinking, marital discord and witnessed physicality against his wife. Benchley had already been aware of Adam's previous issues of public intoxication and a instance in which a neighbor had called in a disturbance. By the end of the conversation Benchley had essentially said Adam's death would likely go down as a tragic, unfortunate accident; thus severing everyone to the best possible measure. MP saves face, family gets compensation, taxi driver, the two Good Samaritans, and Foyle all absolved of any responsibility for Adam's own reckless actions. The exact words and phrasing were lost to Foyle; who just wanted the least amount of pain and notoriety as possible for Sam. He still couldn't believe Adam was dead; it was, as with any young life lost, such a terrible waste.

In the meantime Sam had come down stairs and found Uncle Aubrey fixing a pot of tea. They had a long talk and when she found some of it too difficult in the moment to explain, she retrieved Christopher's letter and gave it to him to read. That allowed him a bit more insight into Sam's situation and served to reinforce his own, long held, beliefs regarding the affection between the two.

Additionally, it afforded Sam the chance to get her emotions under control in order to tell her beloved uncle the most painful parts of her story. She confirmed Foyle's earlier statement that Adam had become physically abusive. Sam insisted it had consisted of one and only one slap. He had struck her across the face when she had insisted on driving them home one evening after he had, yet again, had too much to drink. She had had nowhere to go at the time, but had decided no matter the consequences she was going to leave Adam, as soon as she could put everything in motion, and she wasn't going back to him unless he quit drinking. Sam explained how she was starting to make her plans when Christopher's letter arrived.

Foyle's call came just as the two were bidding each other a good night and Uncle Aubrey had observed it was more appropriate for them to have said good morning. Foyle told Aubrey and then Sam about Adam's death and very briefly what DCS Benchley explained would likely happen. He told her he was going to remain in London another day or two to see if it was all going to go as Benchley had indicated. He didn't tell her he was going to ensure that it did by calling in favors from the Home Office and securing the cooperation of Adam's bosses. There was nothing unjust in Benchley's proposed resolution to the sad state of affairs and no reason for it to come to a close any other way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer, Spoilers, and Warning

Foyle phoned Sam a few more times over the following two days. By the time he arrived back at Aubrey's, all was fairly well settled. Sam was asleep on the couch so he and Audrey remained outside to talk. They heard Christina, through the tiny opening in the window, in Sam's room upstairs. Foyle slipped quietly through the house and upstairs. As soon as he had executed a quick nappy change, he collected the child; wrapped her in a blanket, before he slipped her inside his coat and brought her outside. She was still sleepy, so he soothed her restlessness with his practiced coaxing stokes to her face, ear and neck; successfully easing her back to sleep. Aubrey watched as his grandniece nestled her face on one side of Christopher's neck and stretched her hand out and up around his neck to flex her tiny fingers against the hair behind his ear. The older man was heartened by how gentle and adoring Christopher was with Sam's daughter and how totally serene the child was in his arms. Foyle gently swayed with her, keeping her bundled in her blanket and wrapped inside his coat. The two men continued their conversation awhile longer before Christina woke in earnest. To Aubrey's utter amazement she didn't start crying as she had the other times she awoke the past couple of days. Instead she wiggled slightly and then gave a small grunt when she was still held as before.

Foyle smiled as he repositioned her, "IIII know, up where you can take it all in."

Aubrey marveled at how deftly Christopher maneuvered the child and kept her, mostly, within her blanket. There was a grace as well as a conservation of movement in the man's actions that spoke to either a great deal of experience or a purely natural ability with children. He would not hazard a guess either way; it was enough to know his friend was clearly capable and comfortable in his interaction with Christina.

The vicar was brought out of his ruminations by the sounds of Christina babbling. He watched as she made the noise again and rocked herself towards Foyle a time or two. As he held her intense gaze, Foyle emulated her sounds, eliciting a giggle from the little girl. She reached a hand out to flip her fingers against his lips as he repeated the noise once more. Another giggle from her and a smile from Foyle as she stopped the motion with her fingers and took another turn at the babbling sound. Foyle twitched a finger against her lips and she squealed in delight at their game. They continued to take turns; generating more and more amusement for the trio. After a few moments, Christina suddenly became distracted by the deep discoloration across Foyle's nose. It stretched more than half way around each eye; framing them in dark variegated colors across his top and bottom eyelids. For moment each man thought she was frightened and would soon start crying. Aubrey himself had flinched when he first laid eyes on the swollen, distorted skin on the bridge of Foyle's nose as well as colorful bruises around his eyes; deep varied hues of purple were streaked with red and blue accents. It soon became apparent that the little girl was intrigued, and not the least bit repulsed, by the unusual sight.

She reached her hand up to touch the bruising, but Foyle quickly intercepted her movement and stilled her hand in a gentle grasp. "No," he said firmly and then kissed her knuckles before he lowered her hand and released his hold.

The little explorer was not easily deterred and reached up again, with the same result.

A slightly firmer, "No." was accompanied by a sterner expression from the man sporting the bruise who placed another kiss on her hand before he tucked back into her blanket.

A decidedly unhappy grunt expressed the child's displeasure at being impeded in her desired exploration.

Aubrey watched as Foyle looked at her, sighed softly, gave his head the slightest shake, and then reclaimed her hand. The older man was not certain if he had read it in Foyle's expression or if he had actually heard his friend say, 'Just like your mum.' Foyle carefully drew a finger out with his thumb while securely wrapping the other wriggling little digits inside his own firm grasp. He moved the tiny hand very slowly toward his nose.

As he inched her hand closer he punctuated the movement with, "Be careful", "Easy", "Touch soft." and steeled himself against the potential for great pain if she suddenly moved or took abrupt control of her arm and hand.

However, between her deep fascination with the discoloration and her entranced attention to his voice she seemed altogether mesmerized. Christina was completely willing to let him control her contact with the strange markings on his face. Foyle lifted her hand a little higher than the bruised area, eased her finger to his forehead, and then gently stroked it down to the abused flesh along his broken nose. He felt rather entranced in the moment too; mesmerized as he watched her eyes and facial expressions telegraphing her fascination with the sensations she felt. Foyle knew the area was considerably warmer even if not quite feverish anymore. In addition, the texture was decidedly unnatural; ranging from quasi firm where swollen to an almost sponge like feel down sides of his nose where the tissue had previously been stretched mercilessly by the medical packing. Christina's eyes widened and then her little brow furrowed, followed by a a look if reignited curiosity.

Foyle glanced quickly from her to their companion and back again. "Care to be part of the exploration?"

"No, thank you. I have felt a broken nose."

Foyle grinned and fought the urge to chuckle. "No. I was thinking more along the lines of giving her an undamaged nose for comparison."

"Oh! Yes, of course." The vicar's astonished tone betrayed the surprise he had tried to mask with impassive agreement.

When Aubrey stepped close to them Foyle eased Christina's hand to the older man's nose and repeated the slow motion from forehead across the bridge and down the side of his nose. He tucked her hand back into her blanket and rested his hand over hers, just in case she suddenly opted to return to her explorations. The little girl looked from one man's nose to the other and back again several times.

Foyle felt her fidget in an attempt to free her hand, "Christina?"

He spoke her name firmly and when she looked at him he very slowly reduced his pressure on her hand and eased his hand away, holding her eyes with a cautioning gaze the whole time. Ready to halt her hand if need be, he gave her the freedom to control her own movement.

When she started to pull her hand from the blanket he firmly reminded, "Easy."

She immediately slowed, but did not completely halt, her movement. With her hand freed she held it up and sort of half splayed half twitched her fingers. When she turned her eyes to him Foyle recognized yet another of her mother's all too familiar expressions reflected in her gaze.

Her eagerness was unmistakably clear and he couldn't help but caution her again, "Be careful. Touch soft."

She allowed him to curl her little fingers down and didn't resist as he maintained a hold on her single extended finger; firmly pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Part of his brain cautioned him not to trust her; she was after all still just a baby. But, as with her mother, he couldn't help himself even as something deep inside reasserted how irrational it was to trust in one so young. Allowing her to move her hand at her own speed, but not releasing his hold on her finger, their hands eased in unison back to his battered features.

Just before she could actually make contact he gave one final, very firm, warning, "Be easy"

Foyle braced himself as an inner voice questioned whether she even understood what 'easy' meant. The tiny finger grazed his skin and was applied with a bit more pressure than he had but it was not any more uncomfortable than before. Christina followed a path down his nose similar to the one he had and then turned to look at her grand uncle. The older man leaned forward to allow her to feel his nose again. The men exchanged a brief knowing look and Foyle released the child's hand.

Each man spoke a caution, "Be careful" "Touch easy" and waited together, holding their breath to see what she would do.

Instead of one finger her entire hand was opened; fingers splayed wide. As easy as her own coordination would allow she pressed the whole of her hand against the middle of Aubrey's forehead and then pulled back slightly, lifting the heel of her hand from his face. Her fingers trailed down his face in a surprisingly slow movement; however, it was obvious by the older man's expressions, it wasn't as gentle as he would have wished. Foyle was amused by Aubrey's reactions and strained composure while allowing the little girl to explore his features. Foyle's amusement quickly shifted to staunch self-preservation when Christina suddenly pivoted, swinging her arm about, with obvious intent to return her fingers to his face. He made a grab for her hand as he reflexively turned his head from her reach. His attempt to clasp her hand was less than successful, but it at least allowed him to stop the forward motion of her arm. Feeling around cautiously, not daring to risk turning his head back to her, he grasped hold of the offending limb and tucked it back in the blanket. As he slipped his hand free he adjusted his hold slightly, effectively pinning the child's arms between them.

He hugged her and spoke calmly, "That is enough for now." She wriggled desperately but he maintained his hold and continued in the same patient tone, "Listen. You can be easy with my nose later."

For that he received a grunt of disagreement.

His tone hitched up a bit in sternness. "Christina. I said enough."

The little body instantly stilled, accompanied by a tiny sigh.

"I think you have exhausted your 'careful' and 'easy' for the moment."

He held her firmly, stroked her back and softly hummed to her for a few minutes. Once he was sure her excitement had settled, Foyle eased his hold and reposition her once more; allowing her the freedom to move her arm.

She watched his eyes as she drew her hand from the blanket and started for reach to his face.

He stopped her motion with two words, "No. Touch." and gave her a stern look that held her eyes.

She stared back, hand frozen in midair. The two men watched her as the little wheels in her brain silently turned. The intensity of her gaze diminished slightly and her hand slowly dropped to her side.

Foyle kissed the side of her head and then whispered in her ear, "That's my girl."

Sam came outside just as Foyle kissed Christina's head, "There you all are! I thought I heard voices out here." She carried a small toy dog in one hand.

When Foyle turned to face her, Sam's eyebrows shot up and her eyes widened, "Christopher! What happened?!" She rapidly closed the distance between them.

Amusement shined in his eyes as he held her gaze and said, "Be careful. Easy. Touch soft." and he saw the bewilderment flood her expression.

Confusion clearly evident on her face, she asked, "What?"

Foyle patiently explained, with a glance down to her daughter and back, "We have been having a lesson in how to be careful with a broken nose."

"I see." Was all the reply he received, as Sam handed Christina the little dog.

He couldn't help the smirk that tugged at one corner of his mouth, when he continued. "And I know you are just like your daughter. You will not be satisfied until you have touched and investigated said broken nose for yourself." Again he glanced at Christina and back, his expression saying 'set a good example'. Foyle held her eyes as she eased her hand toward his face, "So, be careful. Easy. Touch ..." his voice faltered, at the expression in her eyes and the tenderness of her oh so light touch, and he breathed a barely audible, "soft."

Her fingers tenderly brushed the edge of the abused skin before drifting to his cheek to softly caress and then cradle his face.

"Adam?" The name was flat on her lips, as though she were asking if the injury were caused by a thing; not a person.

One brow arched slightly, "No. Er, couple of Good Samaritans." He shrugged as if to apologize, although not knowing what he thought he was trying to apologize for.

"I'm sorry, no matter who did it." Sam's thumb stroked his cheek and he involuntary leaned into her caress.

Not wanting to move from her touch but acutely aware they were not alone, he gave her a half smile as he eased the tiniest fraction away from her. It was only far enough to break their contact but he felt an instant sense of loss. The look in Sam's eyes signaled she was about to ask for more information. He glanced down to the child in his arms and then gave her his best 'not now' look. Although, Foyle knew both the adults deserved to know what had happened, he just couldn't bring himself to discuss anything in front of Christina. Whether she comprehended what was said or not, didn't matter to him, he would never speak disparagingly of her father in her presence.

Christina was happily engaged in her inspection of her dog as Aubrey cleared his throat and suggested, "Why don't we go in and start tea. It's a bit early, but I suspect since you two girls have just had hearty naps; you are sufficiently hungry to warrant tea a little early. Huh?" Without waiting for an answer he led the way into the house.

As the older man started the tea preparations, Foyle offered to help and Sam relieved him of her daughter. She carried Christina into the living room and secured her in the improvised play area, Sam and Aubrey had devised at the start of their visit. Sam returned to the kitchen and between the three of them fixing tea did not take long; even though Sam and Christopher frequently peeked through the doorway to check on the babbling, content, little girl.

Foyle inquired into Christina's need to eat. Sam assured him she had eaten well before her nap and would be just fine with a small bit of cake and a spot of milk when they were finished.

As the trio sat down to eat, Christopher invited his companions questions. He had no desire to retell the events in any detail but felt he could satisfy their need for information while preserving his need to minimize how much he shared. The better part of their conversation revolved around the maneuvering involved in the legal aspects of the situation and what was next for Sam to deal with. She was after all, no matter how emotionally detached from him she felt, the widow of an MP. There were procedures to follow and certain social proprieties to observe.

Aubrey attempted to shoo the couple out to the parlor to discuss the finer details of what was to come. He instantly found himself out voted. As a compromise, he offered to tend to his grandniece's snack. Before he could be vetoed again, he hastily gathered the items he would need and quickly scampered out the kitchen door. With an impish expression of satisfaction on his face he left as the couple chuckled in the wake of his departure.

Sam and Christopher worked in companionable silence as they cleared the table and staged the items to be washed.

With twirl of a dish towel Sam asked, "Wash or dry?"

"Ordinarily, I'd say dry, but you're more familiar with where things belong."

"Right. Dry and tuck up, here I come." She announced to the counter as she flipped the dish towel up to her shoulder and retrieved another to lie on the counter beside the sink.

Foyle shook his head as her spot of humor. While he washed and rinsed and Sam dried and stacked most of the items, tucking a random item in a close by home now and then; they spoke in hushed tones about exactly what her next steps should be. They planned out the details of Adam's funeral, including when and where he would be buried. It wasn't planned in as much as Sam said what she thought would be best and Foyle concurred. This led to what would need to be done regarding their home and Adam's other assets. None of the topics took them much time; their individual neutrality and sense of detachment kept the drag of emotional or sentimental attachment to a minimum. They were both sorry that Adam was dead. Sorry his life and the Wainwright's marriage had come to the ends they had. However, the pervasive sense of relief that Sam and Christina were safe seemed to temper whatever grief was present; muting and shadowing the effect it would have otherwise had on their decision making.

When only the flatware remained to be washed, Sam began to move about tucking the remaining crockery items away here and there. She moved behind Foyle a few times to retrieve an item or two and then back behind him to put each one away. He was positive there was plenty of space for her to move between him and the table without touching him, he. Yet, he distinctly felt her brush against his back a couple of times. Then as she reached for one of the last few items on the counter, she didn't quite step passed him as Foyle deposited the last of the flatware on the towel covered counter. Sam stopped short of the counter and briefly pressed a light touch to his back for balance as she stretched the remaining distance for the item she wanted. At that moment he knew he had not imagined her earlier touches. Although, her hand was light enough to not affect his physical balance it was more than enough to upset his emotional equilibrium. While she tucked the item into a cabinet off to the side, he swiftly rinsed and dried his hands without moving from his place at the sink. The next time she stepped passed him he pivoted and let one hand lag a bit behind. Sam stopped when she saw him move and held still as his hand caught up to his turn and he rested it just above her waist. The hand settled almost as though in a dance posture, except at her side more than her back, he settled his hand in the curve of her waist. She held his eyes but didn't move until he gave her an entreating look. That was all it took; Sam swayed toward him and he enveloped her in a firm hug, holding her as close as he possibly could. She surprised them both when she began to cry quietly against his shoulder. Foyle murmured every comforting phrase he could think of.

After several minutes she managed to mumble, "I'm sorry." as she pulled back to look at him.

"Not at all."

"I just ... It ... "

He said nothing, merely nodded and drew her back into his embrace. Holding her close, stroking her back and continuing to offer words of comfort; he simply held her and let her cry.

Once she quieted he said, barely above a whisper, "I understand, Sam. It's all been so much to take in with things happening so quickly. It can be nothing less than overwhelming."

Her head rubbed against his shoulder as she nodded and continued to cling to him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer, Spoilers, and Warning

After Christina was put to bed, Uncle Aubrey excused himself to his upstairs study. Sam was seated on the couch by the time Foyle returned to the living room. He had originally thought to occupy of the chairs but made his way over to sit next to Sam instead. As he relaxed into the cushions, Foyle extended an arm to Sam who gave him a quick smile of thanks before she leaned against his side. He rested his arm, with hers, down along her side.

"What am I going to do?"

"We, Sam. I told you the other day; I will not walk away from you again."

She brought her arm up and hugged him, as if to say she wouldn't let him walk away either.

His arm drew her to him a little tighter as he continued, "Biggest mistake I've made in recent years, and that's saying something." The attempt to try at lighten the mood earned him a soft smile and small ragged sigh; it wasn't a full chuckle but it was enough in that moment. Foyle found her hand, that was draped across him, and gave it a squeeze as she rested her head against his shoulder, "I will not make that mistake again. Sam, you've been my driver, my typist, my assistant, my sounding board, my companion, and my friend. Always, my friend. And I didn't do right by our friendship these last few months." She squeezed his hand and he faltered just a bit, "I ..." he looked at their joined hands and then pushed his head back a little to see her face. "I'm sorry, Sam. Truly sorry." He hesitated in the thought to touch her cheek only to have Sam stretch herself against his chest in an attempt to wrap her arms around him, even though he was partly pressed against the couch cushions. Foyle shifted so he could pull her closer and then felt about for her hand that was still wiggling about at his side. Gently pulling at her fingers he directed her hand to his chest.

When he covered her hand with his he heard her clear her throat and then the quaver in her voice, "Christopher?"

The hesitant quaver and beseeching tone tugged at his heart; he didn't trust his own voice, "Mmm?"

"What are we doing?"

Foyle knew full well there was much more to her question than the four spoken words. But suddenly feeling the coward and suffering the insecure thoughts clouding his mind he feared confessing his feelings beyond what he had already could prove as hurtful to Sam as his absence had been. He hedged, "We're each hugging a friend." The level, controlled, delivery of his words surprised him. It was silly, but he felt a strange sense of pride at having offered her a logical answer in an unaffected manner.

Sam nodded her head against his chest in acknowledgment then remained still for several minutes.

He could feel the warmth of her breath, through his shirt; across his chest, each time she exhaled. The warm sensations alternating with the cooler ones waved over him in an almost hypnotic rhythm. A sense of peace began to pulse through him in time with her breathing. Foyle closed his eyes in order to focus on the quiet moment they were sharing. Absorbed in relishing the calm, peaceful, comforting feeling of holding Sam he was unaware that he had sighed in his contentment.

Sam's voice floated to his ear on a soft breath, "Christopher?" Her quiet, dreamy tone caressed his name.

Foyle's eyes snapped open, but absolutely nothing else moved, save for his heart rate that reflexively quickened at his start. Had he really heard her or was his mind tormenting him with the sound of Sam's voice speaking his name in such an affectionate manner?

He had just about decided he had imagined it when he felt Sam gently tap twice on his chest and repeat, "Christopher?" just the slightest bit louder but with the same soft caress.

Foyle wrapped his fingers about hers and replied simply, "Sam?"

Was he dreaming? He wondered, as he was certain he had, without intending to, said her name in a matched tone of caress. No, he was not! Sam's warm brown eyes sought his as she raised her head from his chest and held his gaze. A myriad of thoughts must have been bouncing through her mind because he could see the rapid changes reflected in her gaze. There was no deciphering her thinking at the moment so he gave her a questioning arch of his brow, instead of asking 'What?'

"What if ..."

He watched as uncertainty flash about her eyes, "'What if', what Sam?" Hoping she would be encouraged by his gentle nudge, he waited. Again her face reflected what he could only guess was a war of thoughts going on in her mind. Finally, he saw her expression settle into one of full determination.

"What if, I would rather be kissing my friend?"

Blinking seemed to be the only movement he could manage, and he wasn't entirely sure he was doing that very well. His eyes tried to read her expression between the shuttering motions of his eyelids.

"Is that wrong? I mean, I know that, that I am only recently widowed, but it's not like we, I mean ... Well, is it?"

Swallowing was added to his all too short list of abilities at present. Foyle opened his mouth to speak, but found that was not yet something he could add to the list and closed his mouth again.

Sam misinterpreted his lack of response from shock and surprise as one of abject rejection and started to withdraw from his embrace.

"I guess it is. I'm sorry. I didn't mean ..."

Christopher was relieved when his arms tightened about her as he wished them to. And, his head began to slowly move side to side. He held her eyes with his; feeling as though his life depended on the limited form of communication. The arms that had pulled her back to him, further cooperated by drawing her upward; lifting her so her head was level to his. He heard, rather than felt himself plead, "Please. Sam."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and closed the small gap between them. Her kiss was soft and tentative, yet warm and electric.

In all too brief a moment Christopher was forced to end the kiss. He pulled his face back from hers; discomfort etched his features as he looked at her, "Sam, I ..."

Again she started to wiggle away, an apology hastily sprung from her lips, "I'm sorry! I ..."

Pain infused his features as his heart clinched in near heartbreak for the fear and anguish he saw in her eyes. One arm flexed to hold her to him, his other hand snaking up between them to reach her face. As his palm lightly caressed her face, the stroke of his thumb intersected the path of a tear.

Christopher brushed his lips against hers and closed his eyes, "Shh." Came his whisper before he opened his eyes and eased his forehead to hers; holding her gaze as gently as he could. "Do stop apologizing, Sam. Please?" A traitorous lump in his throat, gave his voice a betraying tremor. His focus locked to hers; the request reinforced in his eyes. He couldn't stand to witness more of the pain he was seeing in her; it wracked his insides unmercifully.

Her head waved his in unison, ever so slightly, with what he took to be a nod.

"I do not find you, _this_ , wrong. Understand?"

After a pause, she generated another synchronized head motion.

Christopher stroked his thumb across her cheek again, wiping an errant tear, "Good." A silent prayer ran through his mind in the hope that he was not about to make a huge mistake. "Wasn't going to say anything just now, thought you had enough to contend with, at present." He drew in a breath and sighed in exhale. "Sam, I, that is, you were not the, er, only one wanting to kiss their friend tonight." It turned out to be much more difficult than he had imagined with her looking so beseechingly at him. Tilting his head to one side, he guided her head to his shoulder, and then with another deep breath he continued, "I want us to always be friends, Sam. And, even though there may be some who may take exception, I would very much like for us to see if our friendship might become something more." He let his words settle for a moment and focused on his breathing.

A few breaths later Sam's head rose from his shoulder and her eyes pierced his. Her voice was filled with wonder and disbelief, but was hardly louder than whisper, "Really?!"

A smile tugged at each corner of his mouth as he drank in the moment; she wasn't recoiling, he hadn't said too much; hadn't made a mistake.

Emotion and relief threatened to mute his voice completely; "Really!" he swallowed and nodded his head in one short affirming motion.

Sam shifted so she was half seated and half reclined next to him. Having seen the expression on her face and the telltale glint in her eyes, he knew there was soon to be a flood of questions directed to him. Foyle shifted so he was similarly situated and facing Sam. The intimate posture, their heads resting against the couch as they faced each other, brought an image to his mind. The vision caused his chest to constrict in a pleasant crush of hopeful emotion. Could that really be their future? Quiet intimate talks, in their bed, shut off from the world outside; just him and his Sam?

Her voice with its hint of incredulity broke his reverie, "Why did you pull away, then?"

Foyle answered, with two words, simply and honestly, "Couldn't breathe", he gave a wiggle of his fingers toward his nose.

Apparently, that one answer served to satisfy her remaining questions because she closed space between them and gingerly traced the outer edge of his bruise with one finger and then slowly trailed feather light kisses along the same path.

Sensations of care, tenderness, and love emanating through Sam's soothing ministrations nearly overwhelmed him. Her touch was so light and delicate Christopher wasn't sure it was more than just her breath along his marred skin. He wanted to look at her, but she was addressing her attentions to his eyes so frequently, with a caress of her finger or lips, that he kept them closed.

It seemed impossible to feel calmed and energized all at once, but that was exactly how Christopher felt. They had come home. The fact they were sitting on the couch in her uncle's vicarage made no difference, they had each found their way through everyone to each other. No matter where they were from that point forward; together, they would always be home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Epilogue**

See chapter 1 for Disclaimer, Spoilers, and Warning

Sam made her way quietly into the kitchen from the sunny garden near the churchyard of her uncle's vicarage. She slipped through the kitchen and peeked around the doorway into the living room. Her heart swelled at the sweet sight before her. On the couch lay her husband and daughter, curled together, sound asleep. The child's hand gently resting on the nose she had never lost fascination with since its severe injury over 3 years before. Sam smiled at the endearing display of love the two shared. Christopher had Tina cradled safely to his chest. He had angled himself to keep her between him and the couch. One hand protectively resting on her back, his other hand supporting her little head; fingers threaded through her waves. Savoring the feeling of complete contentment, Sam absently massaged a hand around her midsection and lingered a while watching the sleeping pair. Both had been in need of a nap, of that she was certain.

Christopher and Aubrey had sat in the parlor, the night before, discussing their early morning fishing plans. Tina had climbed onto Christopher's lap and pleaded her case to be included in the outing.

Although she was only four years old Tina presented a strong argument to her case. She had learned the art well, in long suffering practice, with Foyle. He had decided the only way to live with the two inquisitive females was to volley his own questions that would cause them to pause and think.

Christopher had listened carefully, offering challenges to some of Tina's stronger points; taking care not to make them too daunting. After several minutes, of give and take debate, the two sat in quiet reflection for a moment; each pondering the question at hand. Foyle took a moment to silently confer with Sam and Aubrey; a quick glance to each received no objection. Tina wiggled a bit, gave a little sigh, and tapped him on the chest. He didn't immediately look at her, only because he happened to be especially fond of her final attempt anytime she truly wanted to persuade him to agree to one of her requests. What she didn't know, was in those times, he had already decided she would get what she wanted. None of the adults had any doubt she would be joining the two men, the next morning, the moment she placed a hand on either side of Christopher's face and carefully tilted his head so his gaze met hers. As he had anticipated, the smaller version of her mother tilted her own chin down so she could roll her eyes up to look at him. Then came his favorite part of her persuasion tactics: she scrunched her face so tight she could barely see or speak and asked, firmly with just the slightest hint of a pout in her voice, "Please, Da?"

Sam smiled at the memory of the prior evening and the many times she had witnessed similar exchanges between her husband and daughter. As she moved back into the kitchen she thought about the triumphant return of the fishing trio at mid-morning.

The pride in her daughter's eyes, as she announced her great personal achievements of the morning, warmed Sam deeper than the early summer sun. Tina, shrouded in the shadow of her Da's old green fishing Trilby floating about on her waves of hair, came running up to hug her legs, "Mummy! I done well! I done well! Da told me I done well. I catched two fishes aaannnddd I didn't talk to any of them!" Foyle and Aubrey caught up to the two and the former set his creel down on the garden table before he retrieved his hat from the little girl's red hued blonde tresses. Aubrey opened one of the creels to set about cleaning the fish. "Da said that's better that Andrew ever did!" Foyle scooped the chattering girl into his arms and cleared his throat. She turned her face to him, "Right, Da?"

"Right!" He confirmed and then smirked at her.

She huffed at him and tilted her head, "What?"

The hint of gravity in her stern question caused him to try for an equal level of seriousness. "Two things." He held up his free hand and extended a finger. "First, you caught two fish. 'Caught' not 'catched' and more than one fish the word is still fish, you just add how many before the word; two fish, four fish, a whhhooollle buuunnnnch of fish."

She giggled at his exaggeration of the words.

"So, what did you do?"

Tina's chest puffed out with pride and she carefully said, "I caught tttwwwoo fish!" Her eyes widen as she stretched the word two in a very close approximation of his exaggeration. Then she began to wiggle and giggle as he tickled her briefly.

"Very cheeky, young lady."

Purposely misunderstanding, she learned over and kissed his cheek.

Foyle gave her a short nod, "Thank you."

Her little hand patted the kiss in, "You're welcome, Da."

Sam refocused the two, "And, the second thing?" she asked, knowing full well what it would be.

Tina looked between the two and then fixed her attention on her da, "What _is_ the second thing?"

"What I said to you was 'Well done'."

Her large, soft, brown eyes held firm to his; silently asking for more information.

Foyle suddenly realized he wasn't sure how to explain that one in a way that would make sense to her.

Glancing to Sam expectantly, he regretted the attempt to appeal for help the moment she opened her mouth; her expression had warned him, just before she said, "Well, she couldn't have said she was well done." Her feigned innocence clearly conveying, he started the explanation and was on his own to finish it.

"Uhm, let's see." He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. "Alright. First, your mum is correct you wouldn't say you were 'well done'. Aaaand second, this is a bit more complicated, uhm, that is harder, to explain than 'caught' and 'fish'."

Tina nodded solemnly and reached out to pat him on the shoulder. Her compassion for the challenge he was facing evident in her reassuring action and patient expression.

Foyle clicked his lips, took a deep breath and did his best. "When I said, 'Well done, Tina!' It meant what you did, in catching the fish, was done very well."

She shifted her expression as if to say 'I hope you're gonna say more than that'.

"I said this was hard to explain. I'm not finished." He gently admonished.

The little girl gave an approving nod, "Good. 'Cause I don't understand yet."

Another click of his lips, "Rrrrright. Sometimes we say something to you and we're talking about _what_ you did and sometimes we're talking about _how_ you did it. Understand that?" He asked hopefully.

She gave him an apologetic look and spoke slowly, "I don't think so."

Sam put a hand to her mouth and turned away, but not before her husband saw the amusement dancing in her eyes. She retreated to the kitchen and spied on the two from the open window.

Foyle refused to give up. If Tina was willing to patiently wait on his explanation; he would damn well give her his best efforts. "Alright. _What_ you do. When mummy and I are clearing table and _you help_ bring the crockery to the sink, that's a nice thing you do. Aaaand, _how_ you do. Is the _way_ you help bring in the crockery. You don't pick anything up until you are out of your chair and standing on both feet. You hold the dishes carefully, walk slowly and set them down gently. Those are all _how_ you help."

Tina nodded very slowly when he arched one brow in question.

"Sssso, _what_ you do is _help_. And _how_ you do it is _carefully_."

Another brief arch of the brow from him, followed by a slightly faster nod from her.

"Today, what you did was caught a fish. But how you did it was 'well done'."

"Sooooo?" She pushed both brows up trying to show she still needed more information.

Her emulations of him always touched his heart and made him melt with deep affection for her all over again.

"So, 'well done' you for not being afraid to pull the fish up from the water and for not being afraid to touch it when you were helping to get it in the net. And, when you tell someone about it you could say, 'Da said I fish well'."

He waited.

After a short pause she sighed deeply and said in a decidedly sympathetic, if somewhat pitying, tone, "That is really hard to 'splain. 'Cause it's really hard to understand."

He nodded in response but felt as though he should shake his head instead. Foyle found he was at a loss for another way to try and explain the point to her. He was sure he was overthinking the explanation; but knowing that just made his failed attempts seem that much worse.

Aubrey stepped away from the garden table, wiping his hands on a towel before pushing it into the pocket on his apron. He stepped toward the pair, and stood a little way behind Christopher, to face Tina alone.

"My dear, Tina. I believe what your da is saying is, _what_ you did was _fish_ and _how_ you did it was _well_. So, you tell people you 'fish well' not you 'done well'."

Comprehension thoroughly infused her features, "Oh!" She exclaimed full of excitement in finally understanding. Then she turned to Christopher and said with a hint of surprise, "That wasn't hard, Da."

"Noooo. No, it wasn't" He looked over his shoulder, "Thank you, Uncle Aubrey." He said with part gratitude and part dramatic flair.

The vicar did his best to suppress his humor at the younger man's reaction, "Not at all, Christopher. Always happy to assist."

Foyle bent and set Tina on her feet. "Go ask mummy for an apron and then hurry back and help me clean the rest of the fish. Your uncle has just about finished the task."

The little girl darted into the house so quickly her words of acknowledgement were swallowed by the kitchen ahead of her.

Aubrey followed close behind her, his apron discarded on the garden table and a tray of cleaned fish in his hands. He however made certain his words carried back to Christopher; who was donning the apron at the garden table. "Probably best if I find her an old shirt to wear."

Surveying the mess about the table, Foyle concurred, "Good idea."

He had worked his way through all but the last two fish by the time his 'girls' emerged from the kitchen.

Sam escorted Tina to the garden table as she explained, "Uncle Aubrey has gone to clean up and have a lie down before lunch."

Christopher gave her a nod, as he pulled his lips tight and fought to suppress the laughter that threatened when he took in Tina's appearance. She still had her shoes and socks on, but it appeared the rest of her outer clothes had been traded for an old button down shirt of Audrey's that had been put on her backwards and buttoned to the neck; which sat in a gaping ring on her shoulders. The sleeves were folded tightly and fell between her elbows and wrists. And the finishing touch was the towel Sam had tied as a snood about Tina's soft wavy hair.

He winked at Sam, over the snood covered head and then asked Tina in a strictly business tone, "Ready, my girl?"

She smoothed her 'apron' and confirmed proudly, "Ready!"

Sam found a chair and pretended to be reading a book as she listened intently and stole covert glances at the fish cleaning lesson. She had to suppress her laughter several times. The most difficult point for Sam was when Tina tried, without success, to convince Christopher she was 'big enough', 'old enough', 'careful enough' and a half dozen other 'enoughs' to use the knife. He finally prevailed by declaring the 'newest and youngest one to come fishing was _never_ allowed the knife parts of fish cleaning', their job was always the 'dumping out parts'; first into the bucket and then from the bucket to the compost pile. The disgruntled grunt, Tina gave him, was nearly Sam's undoing; laughter threatened to strangle the breath from her. She was well aware her daughter had employed that particular expression of disapproval from her infancy; not realizing her Da had long been immune to its effects. Sam raised her book higher to hide her face and hoped any sounds that escaped her would be attributed to her reading; not the spying she was trying to hide.

Sam paused in her lunch preparations when she felt the baby kick for the first time. reflexively, she turned to seek out Christopher to share in the experience. As she remembered he was sleeping she paused, mid-turn, but a movement caught her eye. Completing the turn she saw her husband leaning in the doorway; he had obviously been studying her for a while. Her bright expression brought him close to her with an expectant look on his face. She took his hand and fanned it out where she had felt the kick, and leaned back againdt his chest.

Staring down at their hands she spoke in a hushed tone, to make the moment that much more private; intimate for them alone, "The baby just kicked a moment ago. It's the first time, so it might not happen again, right awa ... Oh!"

Before she could ask if he felt it too, she felt his fingers tenderly drift closed and back open in a repeated, circular type, motion. His head tilted against hers and she could see his face from the corner of her eye. A clear expression of wonderment was uppermost, interwoven amongst a myriad of emotions that graced his features. They stood like that for a while longer, waiting for another kick.

When it seemed the baby was done moving for the moment, Christopher said, "Andrew want's a boy."

"Andrew wants!?"

"Yes. Says I'm already out numbered when he isn't around."

"Oh. And you, what do you want?"

"Even counts would be fine. Bbbbbut you know, I'm very fond of 'my girls'."


End file.
